Close to a duo
by Svetlanacat
Summary: Fate, chance, destiny... or just algebra: solo   solo   a duo...


-Perhaps you could change your name! You'll have a rough time, there!

He had sneered maliciously, however his voice betrayed his feelings. The man had stared at him with a mix of mistrust and hatred, of anger and, though, a hint of relief.

Illya Kuryakin had kept silent, playing indifference, but he hadn't felt this way. As an Uncle field agent, he didn't deserve despise, nor mistrust, and the chief of the London Uncle HQ knew it for sure, but he was « _Oh, yes, the Russian_... ». He didn't deserve it, but he understood. Uncle had begged for a Russian agent, and for some reasons, he had been chosen. As a result, everybody, in London, in his country, more or less, distrusted him. And, more or less, he had managed to cope with that.

Going to New York, to the US was a new challenge, a challenge he hadn't been sure he could afford to take, and he had first turned down Waverly's offer. His choice. Choice which he hadn't. They had reminded him of it.

The chief of the London Uncle HQ had pursed his lips. _The Russian had changed his mind? How interesting!_

-Your government thinks that you'll be more useful, there, I guess!

Would he? His people had never asked him anything about the London Uncle HQ. But in New York? Illya Kuryakin cursed silently. The man, in front of him, had pointed at the newspapers, on his desk. Cold War, again, and again.

-And you can't even defect, Mr Kuryakin! Waverly wants the Russian, the Soviet citizen, not a defector.

He pulled a sardonic smile, and added ironically.

-I have been told that his new CEA had fought in Korea...

_Eventually the man had dismissed Kuryakin, flatly. Good riddance... Napoleon Solo and the other agents would surely be pleased with the Russian puppet. Because it was a puppet! A very skilled, fake, but a fake! Having a Russian had been Waverly's obsession, and the Soviets, of course, had grabbed the chance. An opportunity of outdoing the other people? An opportunity of getting rid of a pain in the neck? Had they? This blond boy, with his Ph.D., his success at Cutter's Survival School, his « skills », as a field agent? A fake! A cheater!_

_-You begged for your Russian, my old Alex? You got him!_

And now, Illya Kuryakin was turning over a new leaf. In a few hours, he would be there. In London, he had been a strange animal. In the US, he would be ... the enemy. Once more time, a one way ticket.

* * *

Napoleon Solo felt uncertain. He had thought that Waverly would ask him to welcome the Russian agent, at the airport, but the Old Man had raised his eyebrows.

-Mr Kuryakin is a field agent, Mr Solo. Just a field agent. Let's spare him the embarrassment of a misplaced official reception.

Alexander Waverly was right, of course, but Napoleon Solo had heard some unpleasant comments about the « Commie », and he knew that the man would probably have really hard times... He looked at the file, on his desk. The Old Man had pointed a finger at it.

-Here is all you need to know about your new Section 2 agent, Mr Solo.

Napoleon Solo hesitated. ILLYA KURYAKIN. Russian, undoubtedly Russian. Who was he? What was he looking like? The man had first refused Waverly's offer. Why had he changed his mind? The CEA turned the first page and chuckled with disbelief.

* * *

-Mr Waverly wants to meet you as soon as possible. We are going to your apartment, first, and I'll pick you up in two hours. You'll have time to freshen up. That's okay with you?

What was this man saying? He wasn't a field agent, too old. Illya Kuryakin felt exhausted and a bit dizzy. He looked at the other inquiringly.

-But you just told that Mr Waverly wanted to meet me as soon as possible. Shouldn't we...

The man stared at the young blond Russian, shaking his head, and sighed.

-The Old Man's orders, Mr... er...Kuryk... Kur..

-Kuryakin, sir. Illya Kuryakin.

The man turned to him. « Sir »? Bob Milton had fought with the Russians, during the War. The real one, not this « Cold » one. This very young man would have to struggle against prejudice, but Milton knew well this icy stubborn look. This one wouldn't give up.

-Let's go, Mr Kuryakin! And my name is Milton, Bob Milton. Welcome in the US, man!

Oh? It was amazing. This man, Milton, had been waiting for him. He was welcoming him, naturally, almost cheerfully. And he was taking him to his... apartment.

* * *

The man, on the photo, looked like to be a student, a very young one. Blond hair, slender body, fine features, pouting lips, and eyes... probably blue eyes. But those eyes were not a student's eyes, nevertheless. Nor was the file. Cutter's words were laconic, but clear. Napoleon Solo smiled thoughtfully. This man was about to be his partner. Alexander Waverly had bent over his desk. « You'll show him the ropes, Mr Solo. » The Old Man's eyes were twinkling, and hadn't he known his superior, the dark haired man could have sworn that he was having fun with it, despite the ususa frowning face, and the serious look. Napoleon Solo shook his head, feeling unusually eager to meet this man.

* * *

-Did you find your apartment at your convenience, Mr Kuryakin?

Of course, he did. They had stopped in a street, next to a tailor shop. Del Floria. Then a smiling young woman had pinned an ID to his lapel.

-Welcome to New York, Mr Kuryakin!

He had babbled some thanks, while Milton dragged him further.

-Mr Milton?

-Yes?

-The young lady must have mistaken. That's... that's number 2, and...

Milton burst into laughter.

-Oh, yes... The numbers. Alexander Waverly is of course Section 1, Number 1. All the other numbers fall to share by pure chance. I am number 24. Napoleon Solo, your CEA, is number 11. So, you'll be... number 2.

Illya Kuryakin raised a eyebrow. It was quite illogical. Bob Milton chuckled and added.

-Mr Waverly decided that numbers were bringing to mind a false sense of hierarchy. Here we are. And...

They had stopped in front of a door. Milton's eyes looked deeply in Illya Kuryakin's ones.

-I think that it's fine to have you there, Mr Kuryakin. Many of us agree with that. But you have to know that ...

And he kept silence, as the Russian agent smiled grimly. He knocked at the door, and came in.

An old man, older than he expected, stood in front of him, staring at him. « The Old Man »...

-Ah, Mr Kuryakin! Nice to see you.

Bob Milton had slipped away.

Alexander Waverly blinked at him, pointing at his ID.

-So, we got a new number 2. That's good. Let's sit down.

They had talked for a long time. Alexander Waverly had talked, mostly. He knew so many things about him... Eventually, he had paused to read some pages of a file, before going on, more harshly.

-You turned off my offer, first. Why did you change your mind, Mr Kuryakin?

The Russian raised his head, meeting Waverly's blue eyes. Amazingly both cold and concerned. Eyes you couldn't lie to...

-I didn't, sir. My government ordered me and as you know...

Waverly nodded.

-I know, and I know, too, that you'll serve Uncle loyally...

Illya Kuryakin's eyes twinkled, and he replied, defiantly.

-Unless you'd ask me to betray my country, sir.

Waverly frowned, finally smiling.

-You made your position clear, young man. That will never happen. And now, Mr Kuryakin...let me tell you about Mr Solo. Napoleon Solo. Our CEA, a brilliant agent, and, incidentally, you partner-to-be.

A... partner? Alexander Waverly was looking at him, obviously delighted, like the cat who was going to eat two canaries.


End file.
